


Like a Shadow That Never Hides.

by turps



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:10:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the band au square on trope bingo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Shadow That Never Hides.

It turns out the meeting place is a building tucked away at the end of an alley. At least, Athelstan assumes the meeting place is a building tucked away at the end of an alley: the directions he’s been given aren’t very good and for all he knows he could be walking into some stranger's house. He hopes not, because, one, crashing someone’s home would suck, and two, Athelstan’s already walked for miles, he really doesn’t want to go looking elsewhere. 

Steps slowing, he heads towards a propped open door, silently mouthing a prayer that this is the right place. It’s been months since arriving in Denmark and Athelstan is well aware that this is his last chance. No matter how well he speaks the language and tries to fit in, he’s still an outsider. Worse, he’s an outsider that’s finding it impossible to find a job that lasts for more than a few weeks, never mind one that he actually likes.

It’s why Athelstan is here now. One last attempt before going back home: or more accurately, going back to England, which may be his home country, but is lacking an actual home to welcome him back. Not that Athelstan wants to go back, as hard as it was at first, he’s grown to love this city and the people who live here.

“Are you looking for me, little one?”

Startled out of his thoughts, Athelstan sees he’s being watched, by a man who’s appeared in the doorway, his mouth curved into a small smile as he examines Athelstan with a long, lazy look.

“You’re here to audition, yes? Your guitar case says as such.”

“I’m...yes.” Athelstan fights the urge to dip his head and shifts his shoulders, the familiar weight of his guitar providing much needed comfort. “I saw your flyer. I phoned, someone gave me directions.”

“And now you’re here.” The man keeps smiling, amusement apparent as he leans against the doorjam in a move that should seem contrived, but instead seems natural and relaxed. Indicating inside, he says, “Come. Show us what you’ve got.”

“You’re in the band?” Athelstan suspects so, but if he’s right he’s also in trouble, because someone who looks like this -- tight pants and a faded vintage band t-shirt, his hair shaved at the sides and artfully messed up -- surely isn’t someone who’ll like the music that Athelstan plays.

“You haven’t seen us before?” The man asks, and at Athelstan’s shake of his head, pushes himself away from the doorjam, graceful as he grins, bows, and says, “Ragnar at your service. I play guitar, you’re auditioning for my band.”

“Athalstan.” Athalstan waits a moment, but it appears Ragnar’s got no intention of moving, even if he does take up most of the available space in the doorway. It means Athelstan’s got a choice, to stand here like an idiot and wait for Ragnar to move, or to push his way through. Politeness suggests that Athalstan should wait, but he suspects doing so would lead to a standoff, one where already, Ragnar seems amused at the delay.

Decision made, Athelstan walks forward, body angled as he attempts to get inside without touching either Ragnar or scraping his guitar case against a hard surface.

“I don’t bite,” Ragnar says, and then adds with a snap of his teeth, “Much.”

Athelstan tries to think what to say. He suspects that Ragnar is joking, but he can’t be sure, and that makes Athelstan uneasy. His heart thumping, he looks back outside, deliberating the odds of being able to get out and leave.

“Ragnar, let the boy be.”

Blinking, Athelstan takes a step away from Ragnar, moving further into the room and toward the woman who’s approaching. Shaking her head, she briefly smiles at Athelstan, but mostly, her attention is on Ragnar, her look fond as she moves close.

“Ignore him, he forgets himself sometimes,” the woman says, eyes sparkling as she stands next to Ragnar, so close that, together, they’re blocking the exit. “I’m Lagertha...”

“My wife and the best damn bassist in the world,” Ragnar cuts in, earnest, like it’s something he believes and isn’t just saying as some kind of boast.

“The world, no. Scandinavia yes,” Lagertha says, downplaying the compliment while still making it her own. “We only want the best for our band. Are you the best?”

The direct question takes Athelstan by surprise. He’s used to explaining his training, how he’s studied music and played all of his life. But this isn’t like those questions, this is Athelstan being asked outright if he thinks that he’s the best, and all he can say is, “Yes.”

“Good, we like the best,” Lagertha says, and while she’s not smiling, in fact, is frowning slightly as she looks Athelstan’s way, he lets out a breath, sure that, whatever is happening here, he’s in no kind of danger. “Come. This way.”

“You should go before she makes you,” Ragnar says, his grin back in place, widening when Lagertha wraps her arm around him, fingers digging slightly into his hip.

“I will,” Lagertha agrees, but her attention is only on Ragnar as her voice drops and she adds, “I like when people do as I say.”

On the surface it’s an innocent statement, but Athelstan can feel his cheeks flush, heat pooling as he imagines meanings that aren’t there. Except, it’s hard not to imagine those meanings when Lagertha is pressed so close to Ragnar, her hand slipping lower, briefly caressing his groin. Trying not to look despite the compulsion to do so, Athelstan’s barely breathing, tense until the spell is abruptly broken by Lagertha, who steps away and heads back in the direction from which she arrived.

“She does like it,” Ragnar says, draping his arm over Athelstan’s shoulders, ducking his head slightly as he adds conversationally. “I like it, too.”

Athelstan swallows, shifting his feet. Ragnar’s arm is heavy across his shoulders, seemingly pinning Athelstan in place, but somehow it feels good, more like safety than confinement as Ragnar urges Athelstan forward, walking side by side as they head further into the room.

“We rehearse in the back,” Ragnar says, bypassing the stacks of crates and piles of materials that line all of the walls. “The front is for Floki. So don’t touch. He won’t like it.”

“I won’t,” Athelstan says quickly, even though he’s not actually sure what he’s promising not to touch. Looking around he tries to make sense of a huge _something_ that’s covered in a tarpaulin and sees that one corner of the space contains a mattress and blankets, a lamp and colourful cushion providing the only homely touch. “But Floki is?”

“Our drummer,” Ragnar says, grinning when he hears the sound of raised voices from the next room. “He’s the best, too.”

“Of course he is.” Athelstan keeps his voice low, the comment slipping out, but still, Ragnar hears, his grin widening as he tightens his hold and pulls Athelstan closer.

“Do not worry. I’m sure you’ll measure up and be the best, also.”

“I will.” That’s something Athelstan has to believe, that despite the setbacks and disappointments, music is something he excels at. Even so, he has to warn, “But I do not know if I’m suited for your band. I suspect your kind of music is not mine.”

Ragnar’s steps slow as they approach the door to the next room, and his face is close to Athelstan’s, his breath hot as he says, “Our music is raw energy. It’s love and lust and sex. Is that not you?”

“I can sing love songs.” Those are something Athelstan knows well, years of busking and open mic spots showing that what most audiences lap up are the easy, familiar songs.”I’m an expert at ballads.”

Ragnar laughs, loosening his hold on Athelstan as they walk into the next room and he announces to the people waiting, “This is Athelstan, he’s going to sing us a lovesong.”

For a moment Athelstan wants to turn and walk out, humiliation rising as Ragnar continues to laugh. Except, Athelstan’s better than that. Maybe he’s not the person they’re looking for, and maybe their music won’t mesh, but Athelstan is proud of his singing and playing. Standing upright, he says, “I will sing you a lovesong, or anything else that you want.”

For a long moment there’s silence, and then Lagertha says, “At least he has a guitar, unlike that creature that auditioned last week.”

“He had bongos.” The man talking points a drumstick at Lagertha, peering along it like he’s lining her up in its sights. “They would have added an extra element of chaotic rhythm.”

“That is why we have you,” Ragnar says, his laughter fading until only a smile remains. “And he couldn’t sing. We need a back up vocalist, you know that.”

“And this boy will provide that?” A man walks forward, a guitar slung over his shoulder, one that’s obviously worn, the body faded, and battered in places. It’s the kind of instrument that students would reject at Athelstan’s former college, but the man carries it with pride and ease, as if it’s part of his body. “You think our band needs a child?”

“Ignore him, my brother lacks imagination and adventure.” Ragnar leans in close to Athelstan, as if sharing a secret. “He thinks he is the best, but in this case it’s not true. He is second to me. In all ways.” Again, Athelstan feels an undercurrent of unspoken words as Ragnar rests his hand on Athelstan’s back. “Athelstan, meet Rollo. My brother in blood. The other is Floki, drummer and creator. He is the best....”

“At both. Yes, yes, I know,” Athalstan says, knowing he needs to speak up, if only in this small way. “What do you want me to sing? But I must warn you again, I do not know your songs.”

“No matter, if you’re as good as you say you are, you’ll learn them,” Ragnar says, and points to an area obviously used as rehearsal space, where a drumkit is a backdrop to a variety of mic stands and amps. “Go there. Entertain us.”

If he was sensible, this is the moment where Athelstan would refuse and walk out. No matter how much he needs money, this band isn’t for him: already he knows this despite not hearing their music. It can’t be for him when the people are so different, arrogant in a way that makes Athelstan bristle -- but, despite these differences, Athelstan won’t bow down and quit. It’s why he straightens his shoulders, raises his chin and looks directly at Ragnar, and says, “Fine.”

“You have found a firecracker, my husband,” Lagertha says, and Athelstan would respond that Ragnar has found nothing, that Athelstan arrived on his own -- but he doesn’t. Instead he walks forward, and, in a practiced move, kneels on one knee and twists his guitar case around so he can put it on the ground before him. Unsnapping the locks, he takes a moment to ensure all his possessions are still jammed into the end -- the little money he’s been saving, his passport and toothbrush next to a spare pair of socks -- and then takes out his guitar.

As instruments go it’s inexpensive, bought back in England when dreams of success remained shiny and bright, but to Athelstan it’s priceless. Taking his time, his touch is reverent as he puts his guitar strap over his shoulders and stands.

“I’m going to sing _Everybody Hurts_.” As songs go it’s one that’s a cliche for Athelstan’s situation, but it’s also one he performs often, usually at the end of the set when the audience are his for the taking. Plus, Athelstan knows it’s a song he sings well, the vocals perfect for something acoustic.

“Of course he sings that,” Rollo says, so loud it’s obvious Athelstan is meant to hear what he’s said. “Our band needs talent and presence, not some Englishman who looks like he’ll wilt under the lights.”

“Hush now, let him sing.” Lagertha frowns at Rollo and then sits in one of the old armchairs at the side of the room, legs crossed and upright as she stares directly at Athelstan. “Your song is a brave choice. I hope you perform it well.”

Athelstan looks at Lagertha, at Ragnar who’s moved to stand at her side. He glances at Floki and Rollo, who’s looking down at his guitar, as if pretending Athelstan doesn’t exist. And Athelstan doesn’t get them at all. He doesn’t look like them, he suspects he doesn’t sound like them, but none of that matters. Athelstan is good at what he does, and if that’s not enough, it’s their loss.

Athelstan positions his hands on his guitar and sings -- and keeps singing, every word bound with emotion, every note that he plays perfect and true. It’s the performance of Athelstan’s life, one that ends with no applause or even much attention. Just, a brief smile from Lagertha as Ragnar simply says, “You’re in.”


End file.
